


The Tenderness of Being

by sfmpco



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 23:58:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14779724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfmpco/pseuds/sfmpco
Summary: Sherlock sorts through how he's going to move forward with Molly after Sherriford.





	The Tenderness of Being

**Author's Note:**

> I know I already posted the work "The I Love You Dilemma" regarding how Sherlock and Molly dealt with the aftermath of Sherrinford, but I thought perhaps this was a more realistic approach.

She had said “I love you” for the first time out loud although under duress, and he equally had said the words, also under great compulsion, but the words had been said regardless, and there was no withdrawing them from either party without causing even greater damage, and for Sherlock, at least, he felt as though enough harm had been done already.  The truth was that he did love Molly Hooper but only as a good friend.  He could not say that he was _in love_ with her as he had never given himself over to those emotions and sentiments with anyone.  But he had said it, and he had actually meant it.  He had never said the words before directly to anyone.  Even at John’s wedding, the words of affection for his friend had been indirect.  _“…so know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world.”_   He would never say “I love you” to John, even as a best friend.  He couldn’t even say it on the tarmac when he thought they were parting forever.  In his world, men didn’t say those words to each other unless perhaps they were brothers or gay, neither of which applied. Certainly he would never say the words to his own brother.  The words were sacred to him, and he had only said them to Molly.

Of course he had to explain to her what had happened, but even then he made no attempt to take back his words, and although unspoken, both knew that their friendship had lept in a new and sudden direction.  It was sealed with a long, comforting embrace, neither willing to be the first to let go, and he planted several kisses on the top of her head as he cradled her head to his chest.  It was in those tender moments that he began to realize that maybe – just maybe – he was beginning to be a little bit _in love_ with her, and that was not entirely unpleasant.  He was relieved that she was safe, and he knew he’d never have forgiven himself had anything fatal had happened to her.  He had come to depend on her as a stabilizing constant in his life, and having been under the threat of losing her, he became intensely aware of how vitally important she actually was to him.

But how to begin something so new if something was to begin at all?  The thought frightened him more than facing his own death.  For his part it began with being overly protective of her.  He absolutely had to know here she was all the time.  If he texted and she didn’t return his text within a few minutes, he called her.  It helped some that he could trace where he phone was, but when she was in the bowels of the morgue, her location became unavailable, and it made him feel a little anxious.

What was true was that he was completely inept at anything resembling romance and as such could at times be infuriatingly chaste.  Having never allowed himself to be in the role of a boyfriend, it didn’t come naturally to him, and he often struggled with the awkwardness of having to focus attention on her while his brain was computing countless bits of unrelated information.  He wanted their new level of relationship to work, but he doubted his own ability to make it happen.  In fact, he carried the nagging belief that he could never make her or any woman happy, and thus part of him remained emotionally distant.

Molly knew that she had to move things slowly between them.  Sometimes she simply needed to initiate a light touch to his hand to get him to respond in kind, but she never threw herself into his arms despite wishing he would spontaneously gather her up  likewise.  She had to exercise restraint knowing that she could only push him so far before he would either take the next step or emotionally freeze and potentially distance himself.  She knew instinctively that she could not change who he was, but she wondered if maybe she could warm him a bit, and was that bit worthy enough upon which to build a future?  That thought nagged her and kept her awake at nights.  Perhaps it was all folly.  _Molly’s folly._ That’s what she named it. He might never love her the way she wanted him to love her.  For years she had built an entire fantasy world in her head of what romance with Sherlock Holmes would be like, but that didn’t meet any criteria of reality.  Yet she couldn’t let those ideas go because she believed he really was who she believed he was, nor could she contain her sheer delight whenever he would purposefully invite her to 221B Baker Street. 

Sometimes they would prepare a simple meal together, sometimes he would order in, and sometimes he would be donning his Belstaff as he met her at the door, and he would immediately usher her into a waiting taxi for a night out.  He chose the destination, usually a restaurant, and he never asked her for her preference.  He did not, however, choose food off the menu for her although he always made suggestions.  These events happened once or twice a week for the first six months, and the gaps were filled with more frequent texts, occasional video chats, and phone calls.

He could be charmingly shy when they were alone together, sometimes quiet and other times babbling theoretical nonsense just to fill the uncomfortable empty space, because neither quite knew how to be around the other in the simple tenderness of being, and he was determined not to call John Watson for advice. 

Mycroft occasionally indirectly asked how things were developing, but Sherlock was just as noncommittal in answer as he ultimately felt that his private life was none of Mycroft’s concern, especially in that area.  “Sweden sends its regards.”  “Sweden” had been their code name for Molly since the time of Sherlock’s faked death fall from St. Bartholomews.  If Sherlock had actually meant the government of Sweden, he would have worded it differently.  When Mycroft had responded with surprise, Sherlock quickly let him down.  “No, not really.”  Molly hadn’t quite forgiven Mycroft for the incompetence in handling Eurus Holmes and blamed the entire incident at Sherrinford on him.

During Sherlock’s two year absence undercover, Mycroft was the one to say “Sweden sends its regards,” which he did three times but with slightly different phasing so as not to give any indication of what Sweden was should anyone have been listening to their conversation.  Sherlock had never  responded to the comment for the same reason, but it was always nice to hear that Molly was thinking of him.

Six months after Sherrinford, neither Sherlock nor Molly had said the words “I love you” again to each other.  Although they saw each other more often, their times together were almost kept to a professional distance.  There was a fragile, uncomfortable tension between them.  She wished he would say it again but of his own volition, and he felt he’d said it and that would have to do for a while.  He didn’t know how to make small “love talk,” and chose to avoid it rather than display his clumsiness.

But there were quiet moments that gave promise: the gentle smile he would only show her, the way she could get a chuckle out of him that wasn’t sneering or condescending but because they were sharing an inside bit of humor, the way his eye would twinkle and he would wink at her as he played a little something on his violin.

They kissed hello and goodbye, sometimes on the cheek and sometimes on the lips, but the lip kisses were little more than familial kisses and quick, matter-of-fact.  They were sweet but passionless.

Shortly after that six-month point he began saying _I love you_ , though never that she could hear and not to her face.  If they were together and she looked away, he would mouth the words.  If she left the room, he would mouth the words.  When she left for the evening, he would mouth the words.  It was as if he had to make his mouth practice the motion first because these words did not come out of him easily even though he felt them.  And when he knew she was completely out of earshot he would say softly, “I love you.”  And he meant it.  Part of him wanted to run after her and say it so that she could hear him, but he remained rooted to doorway of 221B.  When he closed the door behind him, he leaned back against it, feeling the bite of defeat as he said in a near whisper, “I love you.”

Mrs. Hudson stood at the other end of the hall, her arms across her chest.  They had a staring match for a moment before she shook her head and said maternally, “Oh, Sherlock.”  He put his hand up to keep her from saying more, and he quickly bounded up the stairs out of her view.

 _The next time._   The next time he would say it out loud to her, he swore to himself.  But the next time came and went and he did not speak the words.  He knew it would be bad form to say it in a voicemail or a text if he hadn’t let her first hear it from his lips.

He was fairly certain that he had, after all that time, fallen in love with her, although having never allowed himself the freedom to experience such sentiments, he wasn’t entirely certain they were accurate, but he was mostly certain that he was experiencing the quickening of his heartbeat in anticipation of her arrival and a general upturn in his mood.  Though he dared not demonstrate it too much, Sherlock Holmes was actually happy with this new revelation in his life.

It was saying it and meaning it that kept him in a quandary.  Did it mean he wanted to build a future with her?  Marriage?  Family?  How did he feel about those things?  How soon would he expect sex to enter their relationship?  What if he was in love with her but she wasn’t in love with him?  Scratch that.  She’d always been in love with him, even when she was dating Tom what’s-his-name.  Should he offer her a token of affection when he said it?  What kind of token?  Or would a token cheapen it?  Instinctively he knew he was over-thinking it, but he couldn’t help himself.

He asked her to take a day off simply because once he’d made up his mind to say it, he didn’t want to wait for her actual day off, and although she fussed a bit about his request, she managed to rearrange her schedule.

He picked her up at her home just before sunrise, offering her fresh coffee and a little breakfast in the back of the taxi as they headed towards central London.  He spent the day taking her to his bolt holes, none of them anything to comment on, but they were his secret places, and he wanted to share them with her.  He took her to heights in historic buildings that the public could not go so that she could see _his_ version London.  From rooftops he pointed to locations of murders or where he’d caught a criminal.  It was on the London Eye, however, that he put his arm around her as the looked out over the Thames, the Victoria Embankment, all of Westminster, and so much more.  She immediately put her arm likewise around him and leaned against him.  He kissed the top of her head. 

_And he said the words._

She looked up at him in a bit of shock to hear the words, but then she smiled said the words in response.

And they kissed.  Sweetly.  But not like platonic friends or siblings.  He then kissed her deeply, cradling her head in his large hands.  The words escaped his lips several more times without his internal censure to stop them, and he suddenly hugged her tightly to him with a groan.  The words tumbled out again and again.  He said a lot of other lovely, tender things that had never passed his lips before, but he couldn’t recall what they were. He loved her like he had never loved anything in his life, and now that he had found that love, he was determined that he would not lose it.  He didn’t exactly offer a proposal of marriage on the London Eye, but both knew that from that moment, that there was a deep, permanent bond between them and that they would be together always.

It had been nearly eight months since Sherrinford.


End file.
